


The Sign of the Cross At the Door

by thelostcolony



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Gen, Grief, Grieving parents, It's Quiet Uptown - an Extension, Other, dealing with the death of a child, it's quiet uptown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 06:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7673323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostcolony/pseuds/thelostcolony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is his fault.</p><p>The grief of it haunts his every step.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sign of the Cross At the Door

**Author's Note:**

> An extension of It's Quiet Uptown (sort of? It takes place during It's Quiet Uptown so I guess so).
> 
> I hope you enjoy this and that you have a box of tissues on hand, and please leave me a comment on your thoughts.

**\-------~oOo~-------**

 

It is his fault.

The grief of it haunts his every step, presses against his every waking moment, pounds to the forefront of his mind with every breath he takes.

It is his fault.

It is his fault.

Like the beat of a drum- like the beat of a heart. It’s as constant as the thoughts in his head, as the air in his lungs, as the blood in his veins.

It is his fault.

It is his fault.

He takes the children to church on Sundays; makes the sign of the cross at the door. Kneeling in the pew, he knows (has seen) the fact that God is not fair, and God takes everyone and everything at some point, and death is final and absolute and unmistakable. One cannot rise from the dead as the Lord is claimed to be able to. The world doesn’t work like that.

((And yet it doesn’t stop his unending plea of _please take me instead and let him live Lord Almighty take me instead take me instead I’ve imagined death take me instead and let him live_ **_please_ ** _\---))_

But God isn’t listening. God has never listened to his prayers.

((His knees ache with how much he prays.))

There will never be forgiveness for what he’s done.

((It is his fault. It is his fault.))

((In a set of two--- like a heartbeat.))

He prays for death.

Eliza is stone-faced. She never looks at him, passes with a regality that he knows he will never have, walks by him with the grace of the grieving. She doesn’t look at him. She never looks at him.

He deserves no acknowledgement from her. Not for all his wrongdoings--- not for being such a horrible person, such a terrible father, a worse husband.

_Come back home when you’re done; take my guns. Be smart---- make me proud, son._

_Make me proud._

Pride.

Such a stupid thing to fight for, in the end.

((It is his fault. It is his fault.))

((Philip is dead because of his father’s hubris.))

He gets on his knees and prays until his hands are white from the force of clenching them together for so long and his knees are bleeding and his back is screaming and the voice in his head is still saying, _Philip paid for your mistakes. Philip paid for your mistakes._

He spends hours in the garden trying to forget. The house is stifling with the lingering air of misery that has fallen over them like a cloud, the stench of grief and mourning too potent, too close, too much for him to bear along with the guilt he carries like Atlas carries the weight of the sky. He stands in the garden, spends hours there trying to catch a breath he knows will never come, trying to inhale like he was once able to knowing that his family was whole and safe and provided for.

((For as much as he prays, God has never been kind to him. Philip is closer to Him; perhaps that is his penance. Praying does nothing. And Philip has already paid for too many of his mistakes.))

((But God has never been kind to him, and Philip is closer.))

He wonders if God discriminates.

(Death certainly doesn’t. It simply takes and takes and _takes---_ )

Then he gets on his knees and prays until his hands are white from the force of clenching them together for so long and his knees are bleeding and his back is screaming and the voice in his head is still saying, _Philip paid for your mistakes. He’s still paying for your mistakes._

Praying, perhaps, is supposed to bring penance.

It brings pain instead.

Sitting still is not an option; it lays the building blocks for stagnation, for the stifling air, for the grief-filled cries he hears from his office in the wee hours of the morning. (They always come from Philip’s room, but if it is Eliza or Angie or one of the smaller children calling out for their eldest sibling, he has no courage with which to rise and check for himself.)

No. Sitting still is not an option.

So he walks for what seems like an eternity; turns onto streets that are familiar, at first. The memories they hold, sharp and painful and biting, are enough to have him closing his eyes as he picks up the pace as much as he is able, too exhausted to run, too afraid to meander should the memories swallow him whole. He has imagined death so much it feels more like a memory.

He had always imagined it for himself.

Never this.

He turns onto side roads he’s never seen before; walks with his head down, eyes on the dark bloodstains on the knees of his trousers, trying to ignore the stares and the whispers he can hear following his every movement. Aside from them, uptown is a quiet place. Nice. Philip would like it uptown.

He turns around to comment on something, to show his son something he believes Philip would find interesting---

And all that’s there is an empty, unfamiliar street that Philip never had the chance to stroll down. Will never have the chance to.

He swallows and walks on, and comes to the park, and gets on his knees, and prays until his hands are white from clenching them together for so long and his knees are bleeding and his back is screaming and the voice in his head is still saying, _Philip is paying for your mistakes. It should have been you._

He never disagrees.

((It is his fault. It is his fault.))

He comes to stand beside her in the garden.

Eliza doesn’t look at him.

His legs tremble--- he nearly falls to his knees. (Out of weakness or a desire to kneel in prayer, he doesn’t know, and isn’t sure if there’s a difference.)

Speaking to her is unimaginable. She never looks at him, hasn’t spoken to him, does not acknowledge him.

(He is the ghost of their household. Not Philip. It should have been him. He knows.)

((It is his fault. It is his fault.))

He parrots her. Speaks haltingly, falteringly, of how he does not deserve her (and the truth of it nearly brings him to his knees). Parrots her in how he states that he is not afraid (of her. But he is so, so scared; he can hardly breathe, can hardly think). He speaks of how it would be enough to be able to stay there, by her side. (His chest tightens. The _truth_ of it.)

Confesses that, if he could spare Philip’s life, trade it for his, he would in a heartbeat.  


((It is his fault. It is his fault.))

(His prayers to God have gone unanswered. God has never been kind to him.)

(Philip never hurt a soul. He must have been so scared.)

She permits his presence. It is only the goodness of her heart that prevents her from driving him away.

(Perhaps it is grief. Perhaps she is trying to make her own sort of penance. He can’t imagine why.)

(He has imagined death. But never this.)

(This is worse than any death that he could have imagined.)

He tries--- he tries. He tries to make conversation, to ask her opinion, to crack the stone of her expression and the hardness in her eyes. She never looks at him, but he can see it. He can sense it.

She never takes it, and he is selfish for trying--- (because he’s trying for his own reasons, he knows. He’s selfish like that. His hubris).

((It is his fault. It is his fault.))

The time he spends in the garden is immeasurable- but now it is spent at her side. She stands a ways away, never looks at him, never speaks to him. She’s further from him than ever she has been.

His legs tremble, and he has to resist falling to his knees. (In weakness, in prayer. They’re one in the same.)  


((He doesn’t deserve to pray for her forgiveness, so he doesn’t.))

((Instead, he pleads for Philip’s life.))

(God never answers.)

There are tears rolling down his nose. His hands are clenched in front of him, new scabs on his knees, his trousers still stained with the blood he should have shed in Philip’s place. His knees tremble. Eliza is so far away.

A delicate hands wraps around his fingers, and she closes the distance.

Breath hitching just as it has done since Philip’s death, he hesitates--- wants to refuse. But he can’t say no.

(He can never say no. Never when he should.)

He clings to Eliza gently, clings with all he has as lightly as he can, _clings_. She is his only tether. She is all he has to reality. His children don’t understand, but they give him a wide berth. They have always preferred Eliza over him; had always gone to Philip before him for advice.

((He doesn’t deserve to feel hurt. He deserves it. He _knows_.))

((It hurts almost like nothing he has ever felt.))

He clings to Eliza and tries to pretend he’s not clinging for all he’s worth, tries to pretend he’s not drowning because even though he tries to swim to the surface he always ends up swimming down---

Her voice is a whisper.

“It’s quiet uptown.”

She has not spoken to him in so long that her first words sound like the answer to a prayer.

((Is this what that sounds like? Is it as beautiful as this, as unexpected as this, as undeserving as this? He doesn’t know. God has answered none.))

He bows his head. Tears roll down his nose.

His breath hitches in a sob that has been lodged in his chest since Philip pulled the trigger with his gun pointed at the sky.

((It is his fault. It is his fault.))

She curls closer, gentles her grip. He clings. He cannot let go. If he lets go, he’ll drown, sink into death as he always imagined he would.

Her cheek is against his shoulder- there is a tear pressed to the sleeve. Her expression has crumbled.

She is strong. But she is not stone. He cannot leave her. He cannot abandon her, cannot forget her, cannot disregard her ever again. Never again.

((When they get home, he kneels on the floor and prays for so long that his hands have gone white with how hard he’s been clenching them and his knees are bleeding and his back aches and the voice in his head is still saying, _you deserve no forgiveness. Philip is paying for your mistakes.))_

Eliza finds him a mess, a kneeling heap, falling apart.

She gently kisses his forehead.

Then she bandages his hurts.

He looks up at her through the mess of tears on his face and clings to her hand; brings it to his quivering lips and presses a kiss to her steady fingers. His own shake harder than ever they have.

She says nothing to him.

But when she looks at him, there is none of the pity that he sees in the gazes of others. There is only the deep devastation that grief carves, and the forgiveness that is softening its edges.

((It is his fault. It is his fault.))

(He deserves none of her forgiveness. Philip is paying for his mistakes.)

She presses a kiss to his bandaged knees, smooths her thumb over the new blood already staining the stark fabric.

She says nothing to him.

But it’s enough.

 

**\-------~oOo~-------**

 

(He kneels on the floor, and prays until his hands are white from the force of clenching them together for so long, and his knees are bleeding, and his back is screaming. But Eliza is beside him, and her steady hand is on his shaking ones, and the voice in his head is blessedly silent.)

(And they pray.)

That never used to happen before.


End file.
